


"Forced Witness"

by Vanishershade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock/John/OTP/AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:59:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanishershade/pseuds/Vanishershade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three years, John Watson has grieved the death of his friend, Sherlock Holmes, who died jumping from the roof of St Bart's Hospital.  John never pursues a social life, and even quits his medical practice, wondering if his last chance at true happiness has passed him by. When he is abducted one night, he realizes having once been the   sidekick of the World's Only Consulting Detective has far reaching consequences...</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Forced Witness"

**Author's Note:**

> I like many see John and Sherlock as a OTP, and thus I have chosen to ignore the entire storyline with Mary, and pick up things three years after Sherlock's alleged death. We find a broken John, despairing the loss of his best friend and pondering his own choices in life, when he is abducted by John Evinrude Moriarty, Uncle of their old nemesis. John Evinrude may be an even worse threat than his damaged nephew, and John finds himself confronted with a creature seeking to fulfill darker desires than mere social mayhem. This story has some dark elements, from bondage to explorations of character on the part of John Watson and Sherlock that will change the very way they relate to one another, and the world at large. I was always a little put out with the way Sherlock's professed sociopathy was kind of swept under the rug after the first season, so it becomes a major story point, here.  
> There is a bit of Gran Guingol to this story, a little "Phantom of the Paradise" edge to James Evinruide's exploits, to indulge my own love of over-the-top villains. There is also some non-com and nudity, canon violence, and so, if that bugs you, move on.

** “FORCED WITNESS”  **

****

** By Vanishershade **

****

** Preface **

John Watson sat at his usual table in the café, nursing a cup of coffee as he stared out at the dreary spectacle of Londoners maniacally Christmas shopping in the rain.

            He sipped the bitter coffee, as cloudy as his eyes had been most of that afternoon whilst visiting Sherlock’s grave. It had been just over three years since he had buried the man who had altered the entire way he lived his life. This coming Christmas would have been their forth together, and John grimaced as even he drew the mental parallel of them as a couple.

            John sighed deeply, swilling back the awful coffee and letting his cup land with a clank on the saucer.

           He got quickly to his feet and fled for the door, scattering a small handful of notes for the coffee and his uneaten sandwich before ducking out into the wet.

            He wished he had been Sherlock’s lover. It hardly mattered now, that Sherlock Holmes had been a congenital virgin with literally no sex drive and an unhealthy affection for his work. Thinking was Sherlock’s sex, and if most everyone they knew believed they were a couple, then it was an unexpectedly normalizing factor in a relationship that defied normalcy.

            John turned up his collar against the cold and started picking his way home. He no longer stayed at 221 B. He could not stand the look of the place, after all that had occurred. He still had utter faith in Sherlock and his abilities, and nothing would dissuade him from belief in his amazing friend. He had even been in a few scraps over Holmes’ legacy, over the years.

            John currently owned an internet café, which he lived above in a small, dark little flat that was pleasantly inaccessible from the street. His medical practice had been too difficult to sustain after Holmes’ death, what with crackpots and tabloid reporters constantly nagging him for stories on the “epic liar” he had lived with, had watched dive from the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital—

            (— _except that you never actually saw him hit the ground, John. That rotten bastard kid on the bike sent you spinning and you cracked your skull on the cobbles, remember—?)_

John shrugged deeper into his collar. The small details did not matter anymore. All that counted was that the brightest light in his life had gone out, and his own spark with it. It did not feel strange at all, to give the late Sherlock Holmes credit for that big an impact on his own, small existence.  

His light jacket was not up to the torrent of rain which had opened up over the city. John ducked into a doorway to wait out the worst of it, shivering, feeling the ache deep in his shoulder start to sing with the cold. He rubbed at the wounded joint almost angrily.

John felt the bile at the back of his throat rise, and he fought it back with difficulty. He had _not_ loved Sherlock. That was quite improbable, really. John was not gay, and Sherlock had existed in a sort of asexual fog filled with logic and reason in place of flesh and blood feelings. John’s affection was based on respect for the younger man and his abilities, nothing more.

_(—we’ll ignore that you used to watch him sleep, on those occasions when he would simply fade away behind his laptop, dark lashes on pale cheeks, a perfect Byronic hero. Watch him and feel the warmth of utter contentment bloom in your bosom as his chest rose and fell, a mortal sign from this greater-than-mortal man…)_

The rain did not let up for twenty minutes, and it was full on dark by the time John made his way home.

The Café was locked up tight this Sunday before Christmas, and would remain so until Tuesday next. John Watson slipped into the narrow alley alongside the shop, cursing himself for not fixing the security light that should have come on as he approached the side door entrance. The alley was pitch dark, but John was prepared with a little Mini Maglite torch, which he fished from his a pocket with a gloved hand, pointing it at the lock—

—and perfectly illuminating the three balaclava-clad giants flanking him at the door, hemming him in.

John put up a valiant struggle for a small man outnumbered three-to-one, albeit one combat-trained. But it was not long before an ether - soaked rag was forced over his nose and mouth, and the world disappeared down a murky tunnel of faceless shadows, that bound him fast and transported him away…

 

** ONE  **

****

John surfaced to darkness.

And pain. He opened his eyes reluctantly.

His shoulders were nearly dislocated, hooked over the top of a high-backed wooden chair, his wrists bound to the lowest wrung of the slatted back. A few coils of supple silk rope were knotted tightly under his jaw, the lines pressing uncomfortably against his windpipe. His neck was fastened to the top slat of the chair’s back, which forced his hips clear of the seat, and John realized quickly he would not last long in his present position; he would strangle, before very much time passed. His knees were spread wide and hooked under the chair, his bare feet lashed at the ankle to the rail between the back legs.

He tried to struggle, the gag in his mouth tasting of dusty leather and bleach. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and this fact only served to feed his growing sense of panic. John began making muffled cries behind the gag, trying to shake it off or deny the bright spots beginning to dance behind his hoodwinked eyelids, from lack of oxygen; he could not be certain which.

Suddenly he felt the straps of the ball gag loosen. John coughed as the thing was removed, and he continued to do so until he managed to catch a few straining, ragged breaths.

Even without the gag, his breathing was compromised due to the lines around his throat, and his arduous posture. He considered seriously the possibility of positional asphyxia, and tried to adjust, craning his head back as far as his bonds allowed, cursing inwardly.

“What the hell is this?!” John hissed out.

There was no answer. John could feel the cold on his naked skin, hear the faint echo of water dripping in a large, concrete space. So, an old factory or warehouse, then. In another moment he might be able to guess which.

Heavy chains, clanking together idly. Like for a winch. An old garage, perhaps?

The place smelled of damp and rust and decaying concrete. John was not sure where he might be being held; although he had little doubt that Sherlock would undoubtedly have figured out not only in which of the possible locations he was being kept, but also the likely address and district it was in. Hell, he would be able to divine the construction date and type from the smell of the materials…

In spite of the numbing cold, John was beginning to sweat. His teeth were chattering. “Look, I don’t know what you want with me,” he began haltingly. “But I’m n-nobody, now. M-m-my family might be able to manage to gather up a small ransom figure—”

“Not interested,” a gruff voice answered.

John felt his eyebrows raise in spite of his situation.

“Are you…fucking joking?!” John spat. “What is this about, if not a ransom for money—?!”

The twin lobes of the electric prod cooked bullet-sized burns high on the inside of John’s thigh. He shrieked, whipping and writhing helplessly in his bonds as he was repeatedly shocked. He called upon a deity he doubted existed twice before finally appealing to the name of the only savior who mattered to him, really.

“ _SHERLOC-K-! OPLEASE, PLEASEHELPME SHERLOCK!!!”_

The prod was drawn away.

A voice, not the gruff speaker he had heard address him before, chuckled.

“Adorable,” it said.

 

** TWO **

****

****

John had read the statutes on torture in the Geneva Convention. He had researched the subject for a paper in medical school, and he understood the truth of the matter very clearly: Torture was always ultimately successful as a means of discovering secret information. Everyone eventually broke.

Which was little solace to John over the next several hours, since his kidnappers did not seem to be interested in getting any particular intelligence from him. They were indulging in a little recreational torture, to amuse themselves.

They did nothing that would significantly disfigure him, but his enemies were clearly enjoying themselves at his expense.

There were at least a few of them in the room. It seemed three of them were actively participating in the torture fun and games, he believed, ignoring John’s pleas for an explanation or appeals for mercy—which he hated himself for indulging in, but the glass swizzle stick inserted into his urethra and heated slowly had been too much to bear. He had begged and screamed like a child for it to stop.

He was now hanging limp in his bindings, his body shaking and racked by dry heaves. John managed an exhausted pause, panting.

His tormentors had not spoken since the last utterance he had heard from The Observer, the mainly silent other party in the room. His shoes sounded differently on the concrete floor, not like the heavy work boots of the others-- John would have guessed a man’s dress shoe, a very heel-to-toe sound.

John flinched at the firm hand which caressed the back of his neck, someone in expensive leather driving gloves, the ventilated, stringback sort from the feel.

“Please, don’t hold it against my boys,” The Observer’s voice pronounced near his ear, his breath dry and slightly acrid. “But you are such a delicious treat, a little blonde Border Terrier of a man. It was impossible to resist teasing you. I am sorry.” John heard a few isolated footfalls, and felt his captor slowly untie the coils around his neck. His captor massaged the bruised flesh in small circles, John trying to pull back from his touch.

There was something fiendishly familiar about the cadence of his speech. An educated Irishman, with a lilting, singsong voice…

John shook his head.

“N-n-no, it can’t be,” he said hoarsely. “It’s not p-possible…”

“You’re quite right,” The Observer said pleasantly. “It is not possible for me to be Jim Moriarty.” John could smell expensive cologne and something else, an oily smell, clean but slightly cloying.

John gasped as the gloved hand gripped his jaw tight. The lips that kissed his own were silky, cool and slightly moist, the feathering of a moustache scratchy on his skin.

John tried to resist, clenching his teeth at first. But the man had already tortured him for hours, and he was frightened about what he might do next, should he resist. So he parted his lips in sorry defeat, and let the man kiss him, deeply and long.

John in turn responded, despising himself for it but unable to resist. The Observer was somehow alluring in his power over him, and his anonymity. John had always considered himself a whore for terror…

His mind flashed back to a now - ironic conversation he had once had with Sherlock. It was on John’s birthday, and out - of - character for him, Holmes had gotten him a gift.

John stared at the small velvet box, holding it on his palm, regarding it with genuine curiosity and a fair amount of confusion.

“You are aware that this is a ring box, Sherlock.”

Holmes rocked back on the legs of his kitchen chair, finishing his third lemon curd Russian Tea Cake of the morning, which dusted his lip with powdered sugar before he swiped it away with a darting tongue. He was in a jewel toned shirt and black silk trousers—they had a date at the Bar later that morning.

“Perfectly aware. Go on. Open it,” Sherlock cajoled amiably.

Despite his apprehension, John opened the box.

It was a wedding ring. Simple in form, it was an unusually heavy ring made from what appeared to be meteorite metal, the distinct Widmanstätten markings on its outer surface identifying it. Green gems were embedded in its surface, and they twinkled madly in the morning light slanting in through the window.

John stared at the ring. His eye canted over to Holmes’ face.

“You use my birthday to make fun of me. Nice, Sherlock, very nice,” he said ruefully.

Sherlock rode the chair as it rocked forward onto its front legs with a thud. “I am not making fun. That ring is at once a very beautiful gift, and a problem solver.” Sherlock crossed over to stand beside John, stretching out his own elegant hand to reveal a similar ring on his left third finger.

“Wherever we go, everyone already assumes that we are a couple,” he began, smiling like the proverbial cat in the henhouse. “This way, we need not make any overt statement, saving on stupid questions from idiots in the press. Plus, we can switch to single rooms and save on boarding costs. It’s genius.”

John stared at the younger man’s grinning face. “You really don’t see anything wrong with what you’re suggesting, do you?”

Holmes hiked up his brows quizzically. “What do you mean?”

John cast his gaze heavenward. “You are suggesting the two of us impersonate a gay couple, everywhere we go, in the future, Holmes! And why? So we can save on hotel rates and avoid silly questions!” John pointed a finger up at Sherlock’s face. “And if you think I actually intend to share a bed with you when we travel, you’re dead wrong!”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side very slightly, regarding John with such an unexpected air of innocence that he was caught off-guard.

It became impossible to remain upset with him. John sighed, patted Sherlock’s cheek with a hand and slipped the ring on his finger. It fit perfectly, and was lined in lustrous white gold. “What are the stones, in case anyone asks?”

“Opals and Olivine crystals, found in pallasite meteorites,” Sherlock supplied effortlessly. “Gem-quality olivine is exceedingly rare, since most is shocked from its trip through the atmosphere.” Sherlock smiled a pleased smile. “I wanted something that symbolized the rarity and value of our relationship.”

John had gaped at his friend. Just when he had made up his mind that the Consulting Detective was a callous prig, he said something like that…

John came back to full awareness to realize that The Observer was laving his tongue deeply into his mouth, and he was returning the kiss like a common slut—which he supposed he was, at that point. John did not notice the hot tears stinging his eyes beneath the leather strap…

The other man broke off the kiss, poking his now - ungloved fingers under the tight leather blindfold and sliding it back and off of John’s face.

John found himself looking up at a man with steel-colored hair. His large eyes were also grey, with deep, languorously expanded pupils, wide in the relative gloom of the warehouse. He had a thin, neatly trimmed moustache, and his features placed him at around fifty years of age. He also bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jim Moriarty.

“Kitten,” he purred, caressing John’s face with his palm, his slender fingers teasing loose a few errant grizzled blonde hairs sweat-stuck to his forehead. John noticed that his now-exposed nails were glossy and manicured, the cuticles clean and well maintained.             “You must be a hell of a lay, you kiss your kidnapper like that,” The Observer said with a grin. His voice was lower than Jim Moriarty’s had been, and had fewer of the extreme ups and downs, but the similarities were clear. “I might keep your sweet ass in a cage in my rooms, after our business is concluded.”

John Watson felt all of his strength suddenly desert him, rushing out through the top of his skull. “So, who are you, anyway?” he asked. “Clearly a relative…what do you want with me?”

The man smiled down at him. “I am James Evinrude Moriarty,” he said, straightening. Behind him five burly gunmen milled like caged tigers beneath tall, studio style lamps draped under sheer metallic fabric, providing chancy, lunatic light.

John blinked in confusion. “I—”

“Jim was my brother’s boy,” James supplied, checking his nails.   “Brother Dear borrowed £20,000 from me a few years back, and I took on Jimmy as collateral. When Arthur defaulted, I decided it was time I began insuring my future legacy, and started molding Jim to take over for me. When I realized he was even starting to look like me, it seemed ordained by the Devil himself.”

“So…did you make him in to who he became?” John asked.

James cocked an eyebrow. “Jimmy was just a normal little lamb, when I called in my marker. A kid with a staggering I.Q., clinical sociopathy and asthma. He was in a very good hospital when I scooped him up at thirteen. I had a plan to make him my criminal inheritor, someone to run things while I enjoyed my golden years.” And James Moriarty raised his hands in an amiable shrug. “And now here I am, having the time of my life.”

John felt his throat constrict at the implications of the elder Moriarty’s words. “Wait. Do you mean to say, you abducted him from the hospital where he was being treated, to become your proxy?”

The Grey Man nodded. “Poor Jimmy didn’t even know I existed, that’s the kicker. His dad had run off years before, changed his name and everything. Had a kid by some socialite, then tried to pretend the family legacy never existed. Jimmy thought his name was Arthur Colthwaite when I picked him up, same lousy made-up name his dad went by.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “Little prick was hysterical for most of a year, cried and pleaded for his dad, his doctors, his goddamn anti - psychotics. Took a lot of remodeling, breaking down the deficient structure that was there, to reshape him. Five and a half years of constant, repetitive stress exercises, keeping him in the dark, drilling him, battering away at all that nasty, grafted-on morality he had learned from my stupid brother and the hospital. Ick. What a mess they made of him. Had him painting pictures the day I claimed him…”

“Oh, dear God,” John groaned, shutting his eyes. “He was safe; getting the help he needed, art therapy, medication…and you stole him away just to make him into a monster!”

James Moriarty smiled thinly. “Not quite. I didn’t steal him, for one thing. Arthur owed me. Second, I was making him into me, but twenty years younger. But you aren’t really curious about my little doppelgänger, are you?” And he leaned in close to John, who shrank back from the utterly corrupt face grinning down at him.

John brutally head - butted his captor.

The criminal staggered back, grimacing, blood coursing from his nose and mouth. All of the gunmen closed on John as James Moriarty clutched his bleeding nose, leveling their weapons at the helpless captive.

“Lay a finger on him before I order it, and I’ll make raincoats out of your families!!” Moriarty bellowed from behind his hand. It should have sounded comical, but somehow James’ air of menace was even more pronounced when punctuated by his own pain.

James mopped blood from his injured face with a monogrammed silk kerchief. The five armed thugs stepped aside as he approached John, sniffing back blood as he regarded his prisoner affectionately.

“Well done, Doctor,” he said, blowing his nose before smiling down with bloodied teeth at John Watson. “I may never let you leave me, even after I flush out that bastard Holmes with the films we’ll perpetrate of you.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “W-what the hell do you m-m-mean, flush him out?” he said, rage and confusion warring for supremacy in his fear-addled brain. “Holmes is dead!”

James Moriarty tilted his head back, pinching his nose bridge. Both of his eyes were bruising a florid purple. “From the passion in your voice, John, I am tempted to believe that you think that is the truth,” he said. He jerked his head, directionally, and one of his flunky gunmen fetched him a mesh backed office chair, setting it up across from John. The master criminal sat down delicately, swabbing the last of the actively flowing blood from his wounds with his black and purple paisley kerchief.

“Damn,” he cursed, feeling carefully at his front teeth. “I may have to get these replaced. Good show, John, really. Cheers.”

John looked at him with a haggard expression. “What did you m-mean, ‘flushing out’ Holmes? Sherlock has been dead for three years now!”

James Moriarty chuckled low in his chest. “Yes, and as far as you knew, I was thirty years old, and died on the roof of Bart’s hospital until half an hour ago. But life is full of surprises, isn’t it, Doctor?

“I am not dead,” he continued, and this time his voice dripped with the malice and venom John recognized as distinctly Moriarty’s. “I am not dead, and neither is Sherlock Holmes. Someone has been moving through the core of my concerns for the past two and a half years, making surgical strikes against the critical central nervous systems of my business. Whoever it is is blindingly clever, able to move in and out of clandestine circles with frictionless ease, is a master of disguise, and must have a well-established network of aides on the street. That can be no one else but Sherlock Holmes.” The Grey Man took a pink cigarette from a flat box in his jacket pocket. He lit the gold filtered Sherman with a columnar sterling lighter with a tall, hissing blue gas powered flame; the same lighter he had used to casually torture John earlier that evening.

Moriarty gusted out a cloud of pale blue smoke from between bruised lips. “I know that you do not know of Holmes’ whereabouts, and sincerely believe he is deceased. I’ve been watching you for years, Doctor. I have observed your therapy sessions, heard the grief in your voice as you spoke of your loss. You believe he is dead, and have even cried yourself to sleep as recently as two weeks ago, thinking of him.”

John was trembling now, grinding his teeth even as his body shook with cold and suppressed rage.

“I find such human displays of emotion pointless but telling,” Moriarty continued, with a kind of purposeful glee. “Earlier, when you did not know who I was, I was able to kiss you without much fear of retaliation. Now, if I were to put my tongue near your teeth, you would likely rip it out by its roots. Superb. Your loyalty to Holmes is so pure, even after the catastrophe my nephew set into motion, on my behest, that destroyed his reputation. And seemingly, his life.”

James stroked the shell of John’s ear. John Watson glared at him hatefully.

“But I’m willing to bet that he is still as loyal to you, as you have been to him,” The Grey Man said cajolingly. “I am going to perform a number of atrocities upon your person that will be so humiliating to behold, so foul, so unpleasant to witness that the entire world will shudder at them. But Holmes will not shudder. He will _thrum with rage, when he sees what I do to his pet._ And he will reveal himself, if only to save his beloved Doctor Watson.”

John slowly shut his eyes. His chest was constricting with dull, painful twists, his lungs becoming leaden sacs. “And what if he _is_ dead, sir? What if you inflict all of this shattering pain upon me, and he still stays out of sight?”

“But he won’t,” Moriarty said confidently. “He loves you as much as you love him. Don’t bother denying it, Doc—that love is so heady, so deep, that it will hand me the keys to Sherlock Holmes’ ultimate dissolution. It will be beautiful.” James Moriarty took a slim nickel plated 9mm pistol from his jacket, placing the barrel beneath the Doctor’s jaw. John compressed his eyes tightly shut.

“Bite me, and I’ll hurt you,” The Grey Man promised, and John believed him.

James moved in for a second kiss, his free hand clutching at the nape of John’s neck and pressing his head forward. John made a tiny, frustrated whine as James’ other hand slid down to his elevated hips, taking hold of his penis and stroking at the slit with a thumb, tugging and jerking at the hardening flesh even as John tried to protest, straining to pull himself free from his tormentor’s grasp, storm grey eyes tearing.

James was good at eliciting a response from his helpless prisoner, his powerful hand sliding up and down John’s dick, the captive’s unwilling hips bucking up into that fist, manicured digits teasing spurts of come from the sensitive head as John appealed fetchingly for him to stop.

_“No, no, please…”_ John all but sobbed in embarrassment and humiliation. _“Stop this…!”_

“You have a pretty dick, Boy,” James said, his teeth and lips finding purchase on the tense flesh of John’s throat in searing kisses. “And you want it bad, don’t you, you dirty little strumpet..!”

John wanted to tear off Moriarty’s bottom lip, or to pull away and hide where his tormentor could not manhandle him. He should not have been aroused but disgusted; yet his body was responding without input from his brain. He thrust up into the fist stroking and tugging his manhood, fresh tears squeezed from eyes that refused to open and witness his utter shame at his captor’s hands. He did not wish to see the smug look in the older man’s eyes…

And even after he was worked to a full lather, his body shooting its load three times over and left bound and spent, to listen to James Moriarty laugh softly, and hear it as he and his thugs exited after gagging and blindfolding him once more, John’s thoughts still found their way back to Sherlock.

His own seed drying in congealed patches on his skin, John Watson considered if what he had heard could have been true: could Sherlock still be alive out there? And could his true enemy, this older, keener Moriarty, lure him out?

John Watson prayed not. Although nothing would have made him happier, he hoped that, if Holmes yet lived, that he was smart enough to stay away from any trap baited with him as its cheese. He deserved to die at this sociopath’s hand, for being weak, for allowing himself to be taken and used in this degrading fashion.

John let his head fall backward, tight sobs shaking his slight frame.

 

** THREE **

 

Greg Lestrade strode through the offices of the Yard, squinting from a sharpening headache insinuating itself behind his eyes.

Greg yearned briefly for the days when the worst cases were domestic, run-of- the-mill homicides or property crimes. He actually missed when being a copper was just normal and dull…

He swept into the video suite, where DCI Simmons was waiting, along with Anderson. Greg could tell from the looks on their faces that none of the news was happy.

Lestrade looked to Anderson first. “Anything?”

Anderson shook his head. “No forensics at all, not a speck of dust or hair but the one placed on the note, with the one print, which is our victim’s”

“Great,” Greg snarled. He took a seat at the white Formica table beside Simmons, who was in her navy check power suit today. Someone should have told her that 1991 was over.

“Well, how bad is it?” he asked as he sat down.

Simmons looked at Lestrade. Her complexion was pale beneath a little too much well applied but slightly overdone make-up. She was filling in, but seemed a capable sort. She actually was not a bad-looking woman, a headful of russet curls framing her face .But her last-century fashion choices made her seem older than she may have actually been.

Seeing her off-balance was unusual. She was tough, Greg knew. But viewing what she had just screened had affected her…

“Bad,” she confirmed. Greg found himself staring at the copper colored lacquer on her nails, psychically stalling off the inevitable.

“The Director,” as their kidnapper called himself, was a theatrical twonk who thought he was fucking Steven Spielberg. He liked to make half hour to hour long films of his unfortunate hostage being tortured. John Watson was a tough bastard, as game as the day was long, clearly fighting to keep his dignity as stoically as his present circumstances allowed.

But it was not enough that The Director held all of the cards, since any attempts to investigate him went nowhere. He wanted his work aired for public consumption, in the movie theatres.

“…If there was a Sundance category for ‘Best Torture Documentary,’ I’d expect to snag a nod,” The Director had said in the first of his obnoxious Director’s Commentary recordings. “And you have to admit, John is a game little fucker, as entertaining as hell to watch. You can’t deny him the opportunity to be recognized for his outstanding contribution to _Cinema Verities_. So, I want all of my productionsaired in every art house film venue in the country, like the old fashioned serials, once a week. Free matinees on Saturdays, for the kiddies…”

What followed was a horrific scene of rape and degradation that left even the toughest coppers enraged, in tears, or both. Greg Lestrade had nearly become ill himself, watching John Watson helplessly brutalized. And his heavily disguised rapist had used Tres Florets Hair Pomade as a lubricant, no less. Evil style points…

The Director averaged a film every two weeks, and these were no grimy, porno - level pieces, either. Well photographed, high quality production values, better shot than a lot of theatrical films Greg had seen.

The DI coughed into his balled fist. “Let’s have it, then,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

Anderson turned on the player, and the image came alight on the large monitor.

A desolate-looking room, plaster with exposed framing visible through the cracks. There was what had once been a window that was roughly bricked over, and then stapled with heavy rebar, the edge beyond thickly smeared with cement.

A figure yet to be seen was weeping, a child’s thin, plaintive voice. “Please,” the youngster begged, “I jus’ want t’ go home, please, please, mister—”

There was a sharp retort of flesh striking flesh, and a higher wail rose up followed by the camera shifting, to view the person in question.

The dark haired boy was tied to a chair, trembling. He was clad in the remains of a tattered mesh undershirt and shorts, his legs encased in a pair of cruel - looking braces from the knee down. His breath huffed out in visible plumes practically dripping with cold as they formed. His long hair obscured his face from view.

Greg, a family man, sat back rigidly. “It’s a kid!! Who the hell is that?!” he shouted.

“Still going through missing persons’ records over the past decade,” Simmons said uneasily. “No luck yet.”

“But the footage is older,” Anderson interjected. “We suspect it was originally shot on video, with a high-end camera. There hasn’t been time to date—”

Greg waved for silence. “Later,” he said, anger visibly marking his features now.

The boy looked about ten or eleven, and was extremely pale. A heavy leather belt was fastened tightly over his eyes, and his breathing was labored. A livid hand-shaped mark was darkening on one cheek.

Greg snapped one of the pencils next to the legal pad on the tabletop.

The boy slowly raised his head. He was breathing through his mouth, a trickle of blood rolling down from a split in one lip. “I want t’ go home,” the child repeated in a breathless, tremulous tone. “I’ll do whatever y’ want, mister, but let me go home after, please…” From his heavy brogue, he was an Irish lad.

A figure in what appeared to be an expensive wool coat leaned in to the shot and delivered another slap. He was wearing an old style stingy-brim tweed and a silk hood over his face. He never even took his other hand from his pocket. He looked to be of about the same build and height as their main UNSUB in the Watson abduction, The Director.

“Besides making me ill, does this footage have any bearing on the John Watson investigation, or do we have a second kidnapping on our hands?” Greg questioned aloud. He looked back at Anderson. “You said this was transferred from video. Maybe we’re seeing an earlier crime documented…”

Anderson winced. “A serial kidnapper? One who keeps films as mementos?”

“That’s what we’re considering,” Simmons said. She had stayed mostly cool during the video, her second viewing.

“Shit,” Greg cursed.

The boy was actively crying now, and it sounded as if his lungs were closing up, to boot. The grey coated man put an inhaler in the boy’s mouth and pumped it once, sparingly, and the child gulped down the lifesaving spray with a little groan. He mouthed the nozzle of the inhaler slightly, as if appealing silently for a second shot, and then lowered his head, biting his trembling lip.

“Thank you,” he rasped, and the man stroked his gloved fingers over the boy’s blanched mouth. The youngster leaned into the touch slightly, trying to anticipate his abductor’s desires. He lightly kissed the proffered fingers, his desperation unconcealed, his tongue curling over the leather sheathed digits almost delicately. The Director pushed two slim fingers into the boy’s mouth, thrusting them deep in and out with a small laugh. The boy squealed, gagging and trying to trying to turn away repeatedly.

Everyone at the table made a visible shudder of revulsion.

The footage then switched to a fog - bound Victorian street scene. Every police employee in the room recognized Whitechapel on sight, the old East End recreated here with fantastic attention to detail, judging from the costumes on the occasional extra who would amble by, or the bawdy girls plying their trade outside of some of the workman’s taverns.

Greg Lestrade frowned in consternation. “What is this? Bloody Masterpiece, now?”

A familiar voice crawled over the scene next; the same refined Irish accented voice that had narrated all the previous clips, the infamous torturer and kidnapper, The Director.

“The classical image of Jack the Ripper, the top-hatted, opera cloaked swell who was likely a doctor, is a specious one. Jack was much more likely a figure who was spotted in the Whitechapel area several times during the killing spree. This man was a tradesman type, attired like a butcher and known as ‘Leather Apron’…”

And out stepped The Director. As always, he was heavily made up, his own identity completely concealed. Costumed in the tradesman’s outfit he had just described, several perfectly normal knives a butcher might have on his person were extravagantly displayed in his belt.

“‘Leather Apron’ was probably from the middle classes, relatively literate and with at least a fair education. He was likely an occasional church-goer, though by no means devout,” he went on smoothly.

Simmons clenched her teeth. “His information is good,” she said, stroking her chin with a finger. “‘Leather Apron’ is the latest theory being knocked about.”

Greg slowly nodded.

“…It was probable that ‘Leather Apron’ viewed himself as a moral force, doing the Lord’s work,” he went on, now walking down the narrow, cobbled lane, the camera tracking him as he did. “Even the _London Evening News_ of the day questioned, in the case of the forthcoming subject, ‘Homicidal Maniac or Heaven’s Scourge for Prostitution?’ Now, let’s meet one of ‘Leather Apron’s’ typical victims.” And he summoned the viewpoint camera along with a curling finger, leading the way down a dark lane.

“Getting a real documentary today,” Greg growled, mainly to himself.

The camera now focused on a small woman crouched ahead in a dingy doorway. She was attired very much as a soiled dove of the day might be, in a tawdry green and black cloth jacket trimmed in fake fur and tattered black braid, over a dark green chintz skirt with some sort of pattern. Men’s lace-up boots over brown knee stockings, a cheap shawl wound around her neck. A small black straw bonnet, trimmed in green and black velvet, revealed sweet, red/auburn curls at her brow. Her hands were gathered on her chest almost daintily, clutching what appeared to be a bunch of rosy grapes. She may have been pretty, but with her head down it was hard to be certain.

“Shit,” Lestrade cursed in a whisper. “That’s meant to be Catherine Eddowes, the Ripper’s fourth victim, or I’m a Plonk in stilettos.”

“I’d buy you a drink if you were,” Simmons said dryly.

Greg cut his eyes at the DCI, wondering at the appropriateness of the quip. Of course, it had come on the heels of his own bitter exclamation, so he dismissed the exchange as soon as it happened.

The Director came up alongside the smaller female, hau8ling her up and lifting her chin with one leather-sheathed finger. She was rather pretty, and looked up at him through narrowed, very made-up grey eyes heavy with kohl, her painted mouth set in a grim line. She was ghostly pale beneath the twin spots of hectic rouge swirled onto each cheek.

Everyone in the room recognized John Watson at the same instant. A collective murmur went up from the group, every one of the trio transfixed.

From the way his half-gloved hands remained on his chest, it was clear that his wrists were lashed under his chin. The Director plucked a knife from his belt, a filleting blade. He drew it along John’s throat, where his pulse pounded clearly, the knife’s gleaming edge dimpling the flesh and tracing a thin line of blood, not deep enough to kill.

John took in a sharp inhale, his lips still resolutely closed even as he moaned in pain. They were apparently glued shut.

A collective cry went up from the table of police officers then, one of outrage and shared alarm.

Greg bit the space between his thumb and forefinger. God, Watson was a hard customer; if a crim gave him the look he was tossing The Director right now, he would think twice before going any further…

The Director draped a languid arm around John’s shoulders. The hostage’s waist looked thinner than it should have, even if he had lost weight due to his captivity.

“Doesn’t he look smashing, all dolled up like this, friends?” the kidnapper cajoled . “I took the liberty of lacing him up extra tight in a nice little corset a few hours ago, a really pretty one. Don’t worry; I’ll share with the class later.” Then the mock humor went out of his tone, and the psychopath scowled at the assembled viewers.

“I have been asking that you arrange to screen these meticulously made artworks I have been kind enough to share,” he said, from behind the expertly applied latex and Ben Nye make-up. The Director folded his arms. “But you have chosen to disappoint me. I am on a time frame, sirs or madam, my own, that I have elected not to share. But my patience has come to an end. Arrange for a public screening of my films, or I will begin dispatching a copper a day, one at a time. You have one week—”

What happened next caught everyone unaware. John raised foot and kicked his oppressor in the knee with his heel, then slammed his enemy hard with his upper body and knocked him off his feet.

One of John’s ankles was tethered by a short length of heavy duty bike chain, jacketed in bright blue plastic. But the move had been executed with his free leg, which The Director had made the mistake of standing on the same side of.

The three coppers broke out in a wave of cheers. Greg actually slammed his palms down on the table, yelling out an audible “Yes!” Anderson was pumping his fists like a football fan, and even the coolheaded Simmons was on her feet, tears standing in her blue-green eyes.

But the joy was short-lived. The Director got to his feet, producing a nasty looking hand cannon from his apron pocket as he regained his footing. A Smith and Wesson .50 caliber pistol, from the look of it.

John was as far from his abductor as his short lead allowed, hopping in place at the end of the jacketed chain locked around his ankle. He was trying to shout something to the camera, **_“Hmmmpfh!! HMMMPFH MPH, PFFPH!!”_**

“‘Help… help me, please,’” Simmons echoed, with an aggrieved expression.

Greg shut his eyes.

The Director placed the huge firearm to John Watson’s temple. “Death would be too simple an end to our little drama, don’t you think?” he said, grinning a sinister grin from beneath a fuzzy moustache. He grabbed John’s arm and shoved him violently off his feet. The smaller man went sprawling to the cobbled street, yanking at the chain tethering him to the spot at the end of about sixteen inches. The other end was padlocked to a set of bars over the basement window behind him.

The Director leveled the massive weapon at John’s head. He glared maliciously at the camera. “Pity. I was going to give him tonight off. Oh, well…” He raised large, limpid eyes to the unhappy police employees now watching. “I’m going to rape him, with this, I think,” he said, showing off the huge handgun for the camera. He scratched his capped head like a Harold Lloyd character, grinning. “I told you you’d get a peek at that fabulous corset of his. Enjoy!”

What followed was simply appalling. Anderson actually fled the room, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth, face pale. Simmons was still on her feet, her posture rigid, fingertips pressed to the tabletop, eyes squinted at the screen.

Greg actually wanted to cry. Watson was a good bloke, he knew first hand. And these sorts of cases were hard enough to deal with when you weren’t friends with the party getting mangled by some psycho. The poor little bastard was as brave as any war hero, his cries muffled but nonetheless horrific, his plight awful to witness. And everything punctuated by the wild, howling laughter of The Director…it was unbearable.

The two police officers watched resolutely to the end of the video footage, Greg shutting down the player when the screen went dark. He swabbed his brow with his bandana, drawn and shakier than he thought his years on the force should have allowed for.

“We are in the midst of a conundrum, DI Lestrade,” DCI Simmons commented grimly.

Greg glanced over at the tall woman. In the week she had been there, filling in for DCI Gladstone, she had established that she was smart, and resolute. Standing in the dark checked suit Greg had made mental fun of for being dated, he thought on second analysis that it looked fitting on her curvaceous figure. He realized, at the same rapid pace as his previous thoughts, that he could not recall the DCI’s first name. Audrey? Anna? Something that started with an ‘A’…

“I’d say,” Greg said in a still voice. “Wait. What do _you_ mean?”

“I am simply considering what this madman has said he wants for us to do with his footage,” Simmons said. She was pacing now, long legs in expensive but modest heels. She was a graceful woman as well, with a near-silent footfall, especially given her exceptional height. “He wants it aired in a theatre, for the public. I say we give it to him.”

Greg Lestrade gaped at his DCI. “Are you out of your head? We couldn’t possibly show a minute of any of what he’s sent us! First off, it would be a violation of Dr. Watson’s privacy, having his business aired like that—”

Simmons raised a palm. “Listen to what I have to say, before you decide you know my intention, Greg,” she said calmly. “What I am suggesting is that we set up a public event, do our best to keep it quiet, then screen the crowd who shows up. The Director is bound to make an appearance; he’s got too much ego not to. High security, because that is what he’ll be expecting. And I’d not be shocked if he had Dr. Watson in tow, just for the perverse pleasure of bringing his captive into a theatre full of coppers. In heavy disguise, naturally.”

“Oh. That’s a decent plan, actually,” Greg admitted. “Might take few days to arrange, logistically—”

Simmons nodded stiffly. “I’ll leave that to you,” she said, gathering her tablet under her arm. “But make sure you publicise it, as soon as possible. And don’t fret. We should be able to get away with only airing a few moments of actual footage, just to lull him into a false sense of security. Wouldn’t want John any more hurt by this than he is already.”

Greg nodded almost absently. Simmons turned on her heel and exited, leaving him alone.

He wiped his face with the damp bandana, hoping beyond hope that the plan worked. Scotland Yard had been spinning its wheels on this case, and so far, The Director had proven more than uncommonly elusive. For a guy who clearly was not operating in isolation—in fact, his films alone showed that he must have been in charge of a fairly massive level of infrastructure, photographers and artists and costumers. And talented ones, at that. He had enormous resources, and clear access to a huge wellspring of ready capital. Even the flash drives the films arrived on were clearly custom manufactured, free of any serial markings down to the smallest chip.

The guy was like a Bond villain, completely over the top. Greg wanted five minutes of private time with the smug shit, once he was caught. Just to stick up for his abducted friend, of course…

Poor Watson, he thought, hardly for the first time. He knew the Doctor did not like it when people referred to his diminutive stature, but it was hard not to think of him as defenseless, given the circumstances.

The Director was a well-heeled bully, and guilty of unsporting conduct of the first order. Greg looked forward to settling up accounts with the bastard.

He went to go set the plan into motion, hoping it worked…

 

** FOUR **

****

With little to occupy his thoughts beyond his own dread, John found himself rehashing much of his past in his head.

Lying in the large dog kennel where he slept most nights, his mind would stray over old interactions he had had with Sherlock, happier times. Once, huddled beneath the scant covers Moriarty had seen fit to provide against the near-constant chill, he recalled a late morning at 221B, when Sherlock, without a case to occupy his ceaseless mind, had managed to disappear within the flat itself.

John honestly had not noticed for at least a few hours, busy with his blog post of their latest case. But when it was done, and the tone right, he sat back, pleased with himself.

John sighed. He was hungry, and with no desire to tangle with whatever experiment Sherlock might have curing in the refrigerator, decided to go downstairs to Speedy’s for a snack. He rose with a small stretch, hearing his spine crack satisfyingly as he did. He wore a nubby jumper Mrs. Hudson had given him recently, a dusty blue/green colour, which actually accented his eyes rather well.

“I’m going downstairs. Do you want anything?” John said over his shoulder as he slipped on his jacket. There was no answer, which was not so unusual. But an odd disquiet had taken light in John’s brain for some reason, and so he took a good look around the place.

Sherlock was nowhere downstairs, and so John checked his room. It was the usual disaster of unmade bedclothes and stacks of books, and after cursing himself for being a sucker John straightened up, reshelving the many volumes and putting the bed in order.

He then checked both bathrooms, found them empty, and then stood in the hallway, his arms folded in minor consternation. He wondered if Holmes could have managed to sneak past him and go out somewhere. John doubted this, if only because there was that low level sensibility that _someone else_ was home, which all humans possessed within their own environs.

Then came the heavy _thump!_ from his own bedroom, and after a more furtive sound followed, John let himself in.

Sherlock was seated on John’s old foot locker, which had resided beneath his bed the entire time he had dwelt with Holmes. But now the previously locked box was disgorged of its entire content, papers and albums and all the assembled effluvia of his previous days. The shiny new, top-of-the-line combination lock he had put on was lying, violated, atop a stack of cheaply-printed band posters, all with the frayed corners bespeaking of their former posts stapled to telephone poles.

John was briefly too flummoxed to speak, as Sherlock sat, reading one of a stack of John’s old diaries, the other, random-looking books beside him on the lid of the foot locker.

“Really?” John Watson shouted at his housemate.

Holmes did not even look up. “H’mm?” he uttered, as if too preoccupied to give his full attention to his flatmate.

John strode over to where Sherlock was. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?!” he bellowed down at his friend, who finally looked up, smiling a small, satisfied smile.

“I must admit, I am a little surprised,” Sherlock said drolly. “I am particularly impressed by the device you cooked up, the Black Box. Do you still have it?”

John answered by grabbing the composition book in Sherlock’s hands and trying to liberate it. Holmes refused to let go, and for a few seconds the two of them tussled over the black and white book, until the cloth spine gave way and the book was rent in two, sending pages flying. John let out with a yell and began snatching up the loose leaves as they fell, gathering them into the torn covers and stowing it behind his back, glaring at Holmes.

“How could you?” John asked, wounded. He looked at the mangled remains of the compo book in his hands, then at Holmes.

Sherlock leaned back on his hands, crossing his long legs. “I was simply curious,” he said, “about that new padlock you bought last week. I wondered what in the world you needed with such a thing. Imagine my surprise. The secret life of young John Watson…or should I say Thomas Dolby?”

John winced. He then began trying to gather up the scattered items, beginning with the stack of journals piled next to Sherlock. He moved them over to his night table on the opposite side of the room.

“You wrote that you were visiting America as part of a school group,” Holmes went on, completely ignoring his housemate’s state of pique. “You never told me about the band you started there. Or about running away in Hollywood. Tell me now.”

John looked up at Holmes hotly. “You invade my property, read my private thoughts…Sherlock; it cannot be that you have no conception at all of boundaries! What if I had done the same to you?”

Holmes considered briefly. “Well,” he said, after a time, “I have never kept a journal. But my school records are on line, should you care to look. But I sense your upset has a more insular foundation…” And here the younger man stood, folding his arms behind him before crossing the room to pause near where John stood. He looked him closely in the eye.

“My mother used to abuse myself and Mycroft, for years,” he said, more to the space beside where John stood than to him directly. “She obtained a sort of perverse pleasure from our suffering. Mycroft learnt to cope with it; I daresay he became a kind of accomplice, if only to try and ease my plight from within.”

John gaped openly at Sherlock, who turned calm, composed eyes to regard him. “Mummy was skilled at torment with very simple tools; Miriam could fashion a full service torture table from the equipment in her sewing room. I never learned why she did the things she did; only that she somehow hated my brother and I for who we were. She tried twice to castrate me, and grievously injured Mycroft when he was fourteen. I can, if you like, fill in the details, but I should hope my willingness to share something so very shameful should take away any pain my recent actions may have caused you.”

John Watson was struck dumb by the almost cordial pronouncement from his friend. Suddenly he felt ashamed for being angry at Holmes for reading about his youthful indiscretions, and he wondered how much his running away to be in a band in California really mattered.

He leaned close to Holmes, placing a hand on his arm. “I…” he fummered, “Holmes, I’m so sorry,” he managed at last.

And Holmes shut his eyes. “It feels oddly…liberating, to have it out in the open,” he said softly. “You must never mention to Mycroft that I told you. He is still quite friendly with Mummy. But, why are you sorry? You weren’t the one who hurt us.”

John for some reason flushed to the roots of his hair. Without planning to do so, he stepped forward and took Holmes into his arms and embraced him tightly. After a moment Sherlock relaxed and returned the hug, even giving John a small kiss on the cheek.

It was a genuine moment between the two of them. John learned that his friend was guarded with everyone but him, and that a kind of breach had been forded between them that night; there was a special deepening of the bond between them from that time forward. Holmes was that much more willing to share laughter with him, as well as allowing himself to be vulnerable before him.

John also developed a kind of protectiveness regarding Sherlock, something the seeds of which had been planted in the clay of his heart from their earliest days together. But John also noticed a reciprocal sense from Holmes, something that grew in depth and intensity the longer they knew one another…

John cradled his arms over his chest. The dog kennel was open steel mesh, and he had only a thin nylon jacket for protection against the refrigerated cold of the abandoned garage.

His captivity was killing him. John could sense this; he could feel his body shutting down incrementally.

He blew into his bound hands, then gnawed down his nails and swallowed the parings; he got precious little food, and could let nothing go to waste. John did not wish to die, but lying here, hosed down like a dog every day and only permitted to relieve himself on Moriarty’s whim, death was beginning to sound like a preferable end.

His hair had not got quite long enough for him to gnaw the ends off yet, but it was longer than it had been at any time in his adult life. John Watson supposed that suited his perverse jailer just fine, since he seemed to revel in dressing him up as a female. John thought miserably that he could likely pass for one, by now. He had lost at least a third of his body weight, and had been regularly stripped of what hair he had on his body and face, leaving him disturbingly smooth all over.

When he heard the sharp heel - toe footsteps approaching, he sat up in the cage as he was expected to do. John knew he was too weak, now, to court an unnecessary beating if he could avoid it.

“Daddy’s home,” he heard James say cheerfully, slamming the flat of his hand on the outside of the mesh.

John shuddered. His hands went impulsively to the fixed steel band over his eyes, trying fruitlessly to shift it off.

“Aww…Does Daddy’s little puppy not like his special blindfold?” he enquired smarmily. “Well, don’t worry about it, my friend. You’re moving into my new digs with me tonight, and you won’t need a blindfold there.”

John bit back a retort. He wondered what the madman could have meant by “moving,” but he did not have much time to process; he was yanked from the cage and shoved unceremoniously into a sack after being roughly gagged. John tried to call out, as he always did when he felt there might be a chance he would be heard.

But within five minutes he felt himself tossed into what was obviously the trunk of a car, and heard the motor as the vehicle took off for…God knew where.

 

** FIVE **

****

A theatre in Central London was chosen for the screening of The Director’s films. It had been closed for eighteen months, and was on the grounds of a recently untenanted block.

Lestrade switched on his walkie. “Donovan, are your people in position, over?”

“Operatives are in place, over,” Donovan answered.

Greg rang off. They had the theatre well covered, cops inside and out. They had tried to figure out the type of audience The Director might want in attendance, in terms of invitees—they were cops as well, of course, but meant to represent various critical art film types, the sort The Director might consider “worthy” of an invite, from his massively egocentric view.

They had not received another communiqué from the kidnapper, which the Police took as a good sign, actually; it probably meant that he believed he was going to get the attention he clearly sought at long last, which was the analysis the shrink had put on things.

Greg had taken refuge in the ticket taker’s booth, behind the Plonk at the window. Their people were keeping an eye out for anyone of the public who could be John Watson in disguise, likely in the accompaniment of a taller, older man who would be in control of Watson’s movements, somehow.

It was not an ideal situation, by any means. But it was likely to be their one and only shot at the elusive criminal…

 

** SIX **

****

30 St Mary Axe had become an iconic address in London’s financial district, almost since its opening in late May of 2004. Standing on the former site of the old Baltic Exchange Building, which was severely damaged in an IRA bomb blast set off nearby, the uniquely-shaped tower commonly referred to by Londoners as “The Gherkin” became a popular place to live and do business in only a few years.

The few units available to live in at 30 St Mary Axe were coveted and expensive real estate. When the address was sold for £600 million in the winter of 2007, a consortium of UK and international investment groups purchased the extraordinary property. At this time, certain structural alterations were made to the 36th, 37th and 38th floors, a few of these changes involving the installation of a private access and elevator system, additional extremely heavy duty security features, and any number of other, completely clandestine changes. Whoever the unknown owner of those three floors was, they wanted absolute privacy, and no public access. The main lift only went to the 34th floor, and a special hydraulic lift was put in to accommodate the patrons of the bar in the dome. But floors 36 to 38 were only accessible by special maintenance staff, a dedicated private security team and of course, the elusive resident. Their private elevator car was laser keycard entry only, and impossible to access without special arrangement.

So when the figure approached the small security kiosk in the building’s basement, and asked to be let in, there was quite a buzz of activity that followed. The specialized security employees had to quadruple check certain aspects of the visitor’s identity, and he was expected to submit to a level of inspection that was extreme. A blood and tissue analysis had to be passed, hair and saliva samples submitted. A retinal scan, fingerprints and even semen samples were enquired after and readily volunteered.          

Naturally, this process took a number of days. But by the end of that week the scrupulous verification process was over, and the visitor was granted access.

James Moriarty was shuffling through a stack of vinyl EP’s, squinting at the small, colorful type on each one as the visitor came to stand a few yards from him. He was seated in a grey alligator upholstered Eames recliner, his feet up on the ottoman.

Moriarty did not even look up. “”Nice to finally meet you directly, after all of this time,” he said almost laconically.

Moriarty was framed by the stunning view of the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. The rambling living room was dressed in different shades of white, artfully contrasting in textures and sparsely furnished in expensive, custom made pieces.

The Visitor stood stoically, a dark presence amongst all of the white.

“Where is he?”

James looked up at that. “Oh, come now,” he said bemusedly, “I have been looking forward to this for at least seven months now. Let’s not rush through it, whaddya say?”

The Visitor clenched his gloved fists.

“Ohh, scaaawy,” James lisped with a dramatic shudder. “Sit, won’t you? We have time.”

The Visitor took a step closer. “I asked you where he is,” he snarled humorlessly.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. “Sit down, or you’ll leave here with your friend in a Dixie cup,” he said, unperturbed.

Sherlock Holmes sat in one of the chrome and stingray leather chairs near where Moriarty was seated.

“Good boy,” he said, smiling at Holmes. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

James shrugged. “Fine. So, why don’t you tell me how you found us?”

Sherlock looked at his adversary with grim intent. “I have been busy since my fall, destroying your empire from within, as I am sure you are already aware,” he said gravely. “I was not aware of the breadth and depth of it, until I began dismantling it.”

James rested his chin on his balled fist. “Good show, old man,” he quipped. “Go on?”

“I began to run into certain, logical inconsistencies regarding Moriarty’s presumed death—his organization was not threading apart from the top, as was typical when the leader has died. Such a massive and well-funded enterprise might have persevered for a time, but the longer it went on, the more it seemed as if someone had stepped in seamlessly, and begun running things. Someone with a flawless knowledge of the brilliant, tiered and triple blind methodology Jim Moriarty employed.”

James clapped his hands. “Ooohh! So nice to be recognized for one’s genius by one’s peers! When did you realize my deception?”

Sherlock stared at the villain through narrowed eyes. “When John went missing, actually,” he said tightly. “I heard about his being missing through my homeless network. I…I had lost track of him, for a few months.” And here Sherlock looked pained. “It seemed all he was doing was grieving for me, and I got the idea that that was not going to change, and I lost my focus… _stupid!”_ And this final word was delivered with a venom Holmes saved for self-condemnation. His eyes cleared then, and he glared back at Moriarty. “I infiltrated Yard headquarters. The police are good for little more than following the course of crimes once committed. And since I assumed his abduction must have been due to his previous involvement with me, I figured the police would be at least adequate in keeping track of the details, until I could gather up any intelligence of my own.”

Moriarty smiled. “Is that where you first saw the films?”

Sherlock Holmes face turned grim and grey. “Yes, you filthy bastard. I did not yet know that it was you behind everything. I needed deeper information, so I assumed the cover of a DCI, Audrina Simmons. After I saw you in the videos, I knew I was dealing with a second, darker member of the same criminal family.” And here, Sherlock leaned close, flicking the Derringer up from its spring loaded clip into his hand and leveling it at his enemy.

“Now, you will take me to Dr. Watson,” he said uncompromisingly.

James laughed heartily. “Oh, my dear boy! Did you truly believe my people did not know you had that toy with you?” James swiped away tears with his sleeve. “I told them to leave it—I merely wanted to see if you were desperate enough to use it.” Moriarty stood, sweeping up his clutch of import EP’s.

“Did you know John’s band actually recorded a few discs?” he asked. “He was so cute, then—all canary yellow hair and glasses, fit little shit, too. He was their man on the Midi system. Used to lay down custom soundscapes on this homemade creation he cobbled together, something called The Black Box…”

James aimed a remote at the vertical player mounted to one wall. The rich sound of a vinyl disc began to flow from the speakers, and the most amazing cacophony filled the elegant room.

Sherlock found himself listening despite himself, never taking his eye off of Moriarty, but still moved by the rhythmic melody shaking the walls. A voice rose then, over the synth strings, reedy above the din, and began to sing:

 

_“Birds fly above me in the morning sky,_

_“Dreams of you, fading from beyond my view,_

_“You left me hollow, anguish in my heart,_

_“I’ve nothing now inside me, but my dreams of you…”_

James glanced over his shoulder, about to draw some painfully obvious parallel to A Flock of Seagulls, when he turned right into a swinging blow from Sherlock, the ring he wore cutting open his nosebridge and breaking his nose simultaneously.

The blow sent James sprawling on his back. Sherlock dropped a knee on his chest, seizing his throat with one gloved hand and putting the pistol to his temple with the other.

“Dr. Watson, now!” he insisted.

James Moriarty gasped, then emitted a hissing chuckle. “He’s a floor above this one, in the pool room,” he managed.

Sherlock handcuffed him, securing his feet with James’s own belt before glancing around for the private car. He found it, standing open onto the living room.

Sherlock started over to the lift, but James called after him.

He looked at the Consulting Detective, grinning at him through a pall of blood.

“Music has such a liberating effect on the soul, don’t you think?” he asked, voice full of mirth.

Sherlock rushed to the small, open car, riding it up. It had been too easy, getting this far; he knew from his bearing that Moriarty had something planned. But it was a game, after all, so there would also be an outright chance to rescue John…

The next level up opened onto a stunning pool and spa area, tiled in natural slate and Aegean blue glass tile. The lighting was diffused, beautiful, and of course the window walls provided amazing views of Central London on all sides. Music was playing quietly in the background, ‘80’s era music.

A high-backed leather chair sat on a platform in the middle of the Olympic sized pool. A glass causeway led out to this, and Sherlock jogged rapidly along the lighted, textured surface of the causeway to the chair, the back of which faced him.

He circled around the relatively small glass platform to the front of the chair, trying to prepare his mind for whatever state John Watson may have been in. Sherlock had not set a direct eye on his old friend in more than three years, and as far as Watson knew, he was dead from his fall from the roof of St. Bart’s. It would be a reunion under less – than - ideal circumstances, but there was no helping that.

John Watson was wearing an etched, chocolate brown silk velvet jacket; single breasted without lapels, carved abalone buttons and an asymmetric cut, the shirt a dark burgundy polished cotton. He sported a jeweled platinum and enamel brooch on a blue paisley ascot round his neck, tight, skinny black jeans and the most openly impractical boots Sherlock had ever seen on a man; pointed steel capped toes, ostrich skin leather with multiple buckles. John was gaunt, his nails freshly manicured, but the glossy blue/black polish was not enough to conceal the clear signs that John had resorted to chewing his nails for extra nutrition. Holmes grimaced in sympathetic anguish for his friend.

John sat rigidly, eyes closed, a brandy snifter in one hand, his legs crossed, his dyed blue/white hair cut in a neat, lightly gelled style, wraparound glasses on his face. The dais the chair rested on was raised slightly above the level of the rest of the platform.

John did not move or even shift, doing his best, apparently, to hold perfectly still.

Sherlock could smell the sharp, bleachlike scent of hydrochloric acid, in spite of a well designed and effective ventilation system.   One look at the pool lining let him know that his suspicion was true; it was lined in what appeared to be Pyrex glass.

He did not wish to make John jump or startle him, so he gently cleared his throat.

John’s eyes flashed open. He still had not otherwise moved.

“Oh my God…” he gasped, in a voice rough from disuse. He looked up at Sherlock, his face a tangle of emotions.

“Sherlock, careful!” John whispered, “The pool—”

“…is filled with acid. I know,” Sherlock said, eying John’s situation carefully. “How are you restrained?”

John could not control the flood of tears that filled his dark grey eyes. “I’m locked down with cables, around each limb. I c-can’t move at all…”

Sherlock placed two fingers on the back of John’s hand. “Calm down, old friend. I have you,” he said confidently. “The seat of the chair is pressure-sensitive; the cables undoubtedly linked to the electrical system of the bomb inside the chair itself. If I attempt to cut the cables or move you, the motion will trigger the explosive mechanism.”

John Watson took a ragged breath. “Listen to me, Holmes,” he began, “the locks holding me in the chair are coded to react to a certain melody, but he didn’t tell me which one.   But it must be rendered in perfect pitch-singing it won’t do. There’s an explosive rigged under the platform supporting the chair itself; if you walk away, nothing happens. If you tamper with the restraints, the chair will drop into the pool. Shift the chair too much, and the explosive is armed, and we both die. The only way to win is to turn around and leave; touch nothing! Get out, Sherlock. Leave me and get yourself clear!”

Sherlock raised one sculpted brow. “Don’t panic, John,” he said evenly. “I have a—”

_“GET THE HELL OUT, I SAID!!”_ John shouted through gritted teeth. “Discovering you alive won’t be worth much if you get killed trying to save my worthless life!”

Sherlock Holmes frowned. “Hardly worthless, old man,” he said evenly. He very gently felt at each of John’s obvious restraint points, wincing slightly when he felt the tension in the cables, cruelly tight. “Besides, if you knew how many people I had to torture and kill, just to find out this location, you would hardly worry about my ultimate demise.” Holmes briefly pondered, stroking his chin with a gloved finger. He then took out his phone, a shiny new 4G model, scrolling rapidly through his selection of APPS.

A miniature piano-style keyboard appeared on the phone’s screen. “Do me a favor, John,” Sherlock said gently. “Do you recall the exact chord structure of the song you and your mates did, back in the day—I believe the title would be _‘Birds Fly’_?”

“‘ _Dreams of You,’”_ John Watson corrected. “Yes, I-I wrote that one…” and John thought to himself, nervously, then gave Sherlock the exact key and chord structure.

Holmes dutifully pecked out the melody with a pen point. There were a number of loud clicks, and John stiffened at the sounds. But then came the whirring of servo motors, the cables unlocking themselves.

John almost fell forward, his prop snifter of brandy falling from his hand. Sherlock stayed his friend, pushing him back and catching the glass with his other hand.

“I think we’re clear,” he said, “Or you dropping this glass would have been sufficient to trigger the pressure sensor.” Sherlock sniffed at the contents of the glass, swirling the amber liquid briefly before sipping at it. “Cognac. Very good cognac, actually.” He put the glass to John Watson’s lips. “Drink this down,” he said.

John blinked at Sherlock. “Are you serious? W-w-what if it’s poisoned?”

Sherlock glanced heavenward. “Why would he bother to poison the cognac, when he was ready to dip us in acid, or blow us up?” he asked indulgently.

“So h-he could poison you incidentally, when you arrogantly drank the cognac to prove it wasn’t poisoned?!” John stammered. He was blanched and shaking.

Sherlock shrugged, tossing the glass several feet out into the pool, helping John gingerly to his feet. There was no room to negotiate around the glass platform carrying him, so Holmes cautiously walked the Doctor ahead of him, supporting him until they were clear of the platform.

Sherlock then swept his smaller friend up in his arms. He hurried John out of the pool area, to the open lift car.

Sherlock was alarmed by how light John was, and set him on his feet to get a look at him. He felt at John’s waist with careful hands; it was unnaturally slim, pinched in. He felt the ratchet-locks of the corset under his fingers, cursing the fiendish design of the thing—it would have to be removed, but he would have to figure out how…

Sherlock tilted John’s face up to look into his eyes, supporting him with an arm under and around his ribs, which were spare above the line of the tight corset.

John’s lids fluttered. The poor creature was nearly unconscious, probably just from the sudden relief of his situation. Sherlock wondered at Moriarty’s bizarre choice of wardrobe for John—but then realized he did not really care why he had dressed Doctor Watson up as the King of the ‘80’s. He was just glad to have him back again.

Sherlock stepped off the lift into Moriarty’s flat, seeing the villain seated glumly on the couch, his hands still cuffed and nose and face covered in clotted blood.

“Happy now?” he called mockingly, as Sherlock ignored him and carried John into one of the bedrooms.

He placed the now completely unconscious John on the comfortable bed, taking a moment to stroke some of his dyed hair out of his face. It was longer than he remembered, but John had been held for over seven months. Sherlock unbuttoned the jacket and shirt, removing them both at once.

The waist pincher was more of a torture instrument than apparel, the cruel ratchet lock closures permitting the device to be tightened remotely. John was very thin, his body striped in whipmarks and bruises everywhere, burns scoring his flesh above the waistline of his tight jeans.

Sherlock frowned deeply. He got one of the expensive Egyptian cotton towels from the bath, snatching an assortment of first aid goods from the medicine cabinet.

He wet the towel with a bit of peroxide and gingerly dabbed at the worst of the long-untreated wounds. Sherlock Holmes was not ordinarily the sort to weep at the plight of others, but this man was his friend—his best and only friend. Loyal to a fault, dogged, and bright enough to keep up, which set him apart from the main mass of humanity.

Holmes unbuckled the pointy shoes and slid them off of John’s feet. His soles were marked from blows across the arch, and Sherlock realized that walking must have been excruciating for Watson earlier. The jeans looked uncomfortable, so Sherlock started to undo them, first trying to unfasten the studded belt.   He found that the belt had an actual, working lock, and somehow engaged with the tight waist-pincher.

Sherlock opened up his Leatherman Multi Tool, and set about disabling the lock. He was considering what to do next…

_“…get John cleaned up, then call an ambulance, and the police. Moriarty—who would have thought there was a second, darker version in the wings…?_

It took him only minutes to disengage the lock—it was mainly for effect, just meaningful enough to dissuade the unfortunate forced to wear it. Sherlock hesitated for a short moment—John was shy about his body; would he really want to be stripped like this, even by a well-meaning friend?

He waved aside the notion, and set about taking down the jeans…

 

*~*~*

 

James Moriarty was weighing his options.

Holmes had chosen high quality cuffs. They were hinged, SWAT issue, and he had fastened them without regard to the legal ramifications the cops had to keep in mind—so they were much tighter than usual.

He could still have escaped, of course. He owned this pig of a building, and had nine secret exits he could easily have made use of.

But Jim had gotten to have all the fun with Holmes originally, and he wanted his turn. Jim had been more than a little smitten with Sherlock, truth be told. Little pansy. James had milled out the twerp’s back teeth with a dental drill until he sucked it up, going on about the Consulting Detective and how handsome he and his friend were, how kind they were to each other…

Suddenly Holmes came tearing out of the guest bedroom, marching right up to where James was waiting for the next part of the drama to play out.

He raised his eyes, preparing to unleash his most smug smile, until he caught the expression on Holmes’ face.

He was breathing shallowly, his lips so compressed they were white.   His pale eyes were nearly silver in the halogen light, the pupils contracted to pinpoints.

**_“Animal,”_** Sherlock growled. He showed him the item in his right hand, a Leatherman tool, opened to the plier head.

And for the very first time in his long and illustrious criminal career, James Moriarty cowered in terror…

 

** SEVEN **

 

John Watson woke in his own bed, but not the one he maintained at the flat over the Internet Café he owned. That was little more than a neatly made Army cot. This was a proper Queen sized bed, with piles of covers that smelled of lemon and lavender, and just a hint of his own aftershave.

He sat up slightly. This was his room at Baker Street, hardly changed at all in the years he had been away. A pair of figures sat on either side of the bed, regarding him with concern: one was Mrs. Hudson, looking spry but worried, about him, he realized.

The second figure was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. He looked warm in the light from the antique lamp on the night table; the one John always meant to tell Mrs. Hudson he wanted moved somewhere more suitable, with its pink, rutched shade and beaded tassels. Sherlock was looking at him with more feeling and animation than he had ever seen from him before, his handsome brow creased with concern. He reached over to take John’s hand, smiling now, something close to joy marking his features.

John’s heart leapt, and he almost bit back on the feeling—how many times had he dreamt this very dream, only to wake up tied to a chair, a pair of locking pliers clamped on to some sensitive body part?

But Holmes’ hand on his was real, as was the grin on his face as he patted his leg, gentle but with authentic enthusiasm. “My friend,” he said, sounding pleased.

Mrs. Hudson was happy as well, but obviously concerned about his injuries. “Are you all right, Doctor?” she asked sweetly. “You look a fright! Sorry, but I helped Holmes bathe you a few hours ago—”

John flushed scarlet. He looked from one of his friends to the other, around the room which should have been rented out years past, and he embraced the older woman tightly. She let out with a little gasp of surprise, and hugged him back, listening to him as he wept his disbelief and happiness into her shoulder.

The landlady cooed at one of the men she regarded as a surrogate son. She looked at John’s face as he drew back a little, weary eyed but still enormously happy. “Why are things still as they were?” he asked in a grey voice. “This is my room, just as it was—”

“Why, Mr. Holmes’ brother, of course,” Mrs. Hudson supplied easily. “He paid me to keep the place as if you would return any day. Clean and change the bedclothes, replace out the food in the fridge once a week, just as if you might come home, even though Sherlock was supposedly dead.” And she looked fondly across the bed over at Sherlock. “And imagine my surprise, today! Both of you, alive and mostly well…although I made Sherlock promise to take you to a proper hospital before morning.”

John Watson took the opportunity to look over at Sherlock. The younger man got up, circling around the foot of the bed to give Mrs. Hudson a small kiss on the cheek.

“We need to talk, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered, seeing her out the door with a hand on her back.

“Alright, dear. You’ll be wanting some tea in a bit, I suppose?” she asked, smiling brightly.

“Absolutely,” he assured her, seeing the woman off and locking himself in with Dr. Watson.

Holmes stood with his back to the door, his head lowered. “I’m sorry, John—” he began quietly.

“You saved my life, Holmes,” John said. “I am not angry at you, just…I don’t know. Confused, perhaps. Can you explain, why you let me believe you were dead, for over three years?”

Sherlock seemed to diminish in stature slightly. “For your own safety,” he said contritely. “I was left in an untenable situation, after my encounter with Moriarty at St. Bart’s—”

“I thought you were _dead,_ Holmes..!” John Watson said, his voice stretched thin with emotion. “Do you know what that was like for me? In the short time that we knew one another, you changed my life, gave it a meaning it had never had before…and then, you were gone, off the roof before my eyes…” and here, John hid his face behind his hands.

Sherlock crept closer to the bed, carefully sitting down behind his distraught friend. There were many things he wanted to express, but the words failed him miserably. He had hurt this good man, not intentionally, but the damage was still done.

It would have been different, had they been lovers. Lovers could lose themselves in a sort of mindless joy, just at seeing each other again after a long trial. Friendship was more complicated, particularly what he shared with John, who was the only person he had ever cared for enough to let so near to his guarded, inner self. He did not wish to lose his friend, but knew their issues had to be addressed.

“John,” he whispered. “I am truly sorry, but the situation could not be avoided. There are people who would have done both you and Mrs. Hudson grave harm, had they not been dealt with. You, Lestrade, Molly…all of you were in danger, and I had to let my enemies believe I was dead for a time, to keep you all safe. Please, forgive me,” he appealed to his friend’s bent back, John’s bony frame quaking with his tears. Sherlock leaned close and placed a steadying hand on his arm, the other on his back, laying his head between John’s shoulders and resting it there.

“I can’t lose you,” he said in a small voice. “I have no one else I can trust, the way I trust you. There will never be anyone I can come to trust in the same way. You are unique. You are dear to me.”

John slowly raised his head. He turned around, Sherlock sitting up to regard his friend face to face.

John Watson tilted his head in a way that was almost winsome. “You frightened me,” he said softly.

“I know. I am so sorry.”

John fell silent and still for a few moments. “I nearly took my own life, a few times.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You would never. You’re no coward.”

“I don’t consider suicide a cowardly decision,” John said seriously. “No greater drive exists in nature, than to preserve one’s own life. Making the decision to end that life requires enormous personal courage, not any sort of cowardice.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “That is a very good point, although not one I would have expected from a physician.”

“There are a lot of opinions you wouldn’t expect from me,” John said, finally returning a ghost of a smile. “What about Moriarty? Did he get away?”

Sherlock looked down. “Moriarty…” he repeated. “I do not think we will be troubled any more by the elder Moriarty. I watched the films he made of you. Those, and other, older works, while you were resting at his flat. He was a demon, John. What he did to you, and to his nephew, were monstrous crimes. I made certain he paid for them.”

John knew better than to enquire any further. “There is nothing to forgive, by the way,” he informed Holmes. “I was upset, before. But I understand everything, now. I am so glad you are alive, Sherlock. The world is a far less interesting and less good place, without you in it.”

Holmes smiled gratefully. “I can say the same for you, chum,” he said with a grin.

They laughed gently together, and the sound filled the bedroom with merriment. John took both of Sherlock’s hands in his, and shook them briskly. “Thank you for brightening my life again, Holmes. I missed you.”

“And I, you,” Sherlock replied, pleased to have his friend back in good graces.

 

** EIGHT **

****

John Watson was hospitalised for a long while after that. The damage done his body was one thing, but the damage done his great heart and soul were entirely another. After the physical damage was mended, months of nightmares persisted, and for a time there was seldom a night at 221 B which passed that went unbroken by his screams.

He was traumatized, and Sherlock had to learn a new way to treat his old friend. He could no longer afford to be too pointlessly harsh with John these days. It meant Holmes had to adjust to life with someone who was disturbed by simple things which reminded him of his captivity. Water coolers, the sort with five gallon bottles, caused John no end of distress, particularly the sound they made as they emptied. Hoses were something he had to get used to again, as were any loud, metallic noises. It seemed James E. Moriarty had been a behavioral scientist, and had replicated Pavlov’s experiment to condition dogs to starve right in front of their own food, by banging together pipes loudly whenever they moved to eat.

So, the internal scars took longer to heal than the outer ones. But even they eventually retreated somewhat, to a farther corner of John’s consciousness.

Every now and then, church bells in public squares could induce panic attacks in John, and Holmes would have to hold him, whispering assurances that they were indeed just church bells, not dire warnings that he would be punished.

At such times, people would stare at the two of them, Sherlock clutching Watson, the other man pale with fright as his friend held him close, comforting. And those people would always assume they were a couple.

One day, sometime later, the two friends were walking through a local park, enjoying an unusually balmy late fall in London. Walks were good for John, although Sherlock’s older programming still wanted to think of them as a waste of time. But Holmes was in a particularly good humor this afternoon, and kept his complaints to himself, even buying a lemon ice from a park vendor for himself and for The Good Doctor.

They found a bench in the park with shade and isolated enough, and sat down side by side.

Sherlock dipped up some of the lemon concoction and licked it from the flat wooden spoon. “I realized something today,” he said in an easy tone of voice.

“Oh? What?” John enquired, dining as happily as a child on the ice.

“I realized what you and I are, together,” Sherlock said mysteriously.

John looked up at that. “What? I mean, what are we, in your estimation? This should be interesting…”

Sherlock Holmes sat back on the bench. “We are Intimate Companions,” he said. “That’s what the Victorians used to call it, when two men shared their lives, but not necessarily a sexual relationship. You are not gay, I know, and I have no interest in the physical act. But we are bound together, as surely as any married couple.”

John seemed to mull this over. Finally he shrugged. “I suppose that is as good a term as any, for what we share. Intimate Companions. I like it.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good,” he said. He finished off the ice, tossing the paper away in the nearby bin. Holmes then looked at John’s profile, pausing to watch his friend as he finished eating.

John blinked at him, after a moment. “Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He swept down onto one knee in front of John Watson, taking his hand as he produced an ecru white velvet box, trimmed in a line of gold. He flipped the box open with his thumb to reveal a beautiful man’s engagement ring set.

“John,” Sherlock asked, his color high, “Will you marry me?”

John gaped down at him. “You are completely insane. Did we not just ascertain that I am not gay?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered. “Neither am I. And we also ascertained that we are bound together, by bonds beyond mere friendship. There are but two ways to legally solidify that bond; marriage and adoption. I would rather call you ‘Partner’ than ‘Daddy.’”

John could not suppress a chuckle. He thought about it seriously, then, looking down at his friend, the man who knew him better than anyone—who understood his own repressed violence as well as the wounded parts of him. Maybe, just maybe, it would not be so bad after all.

And Sherlock had impeccable taste in rings. This set was platinum and yellow gold, with a spray of pink baguette diamonds.

“I hate you,” John said, and then, “Yes, you madman, I’ll marry you.”

Sherlock smiled a beatific smile, and he took one of the rings and slid it on to John’s finger, handing him the box. John and he actually switched places and did the entire exchange again; there were no established rules, yet…

 

*~*~*

 

Their lives did change significantly thereafter.

First off, their friends were extremely happy for them. Even Donovan congratulated them, although she did tell John in private that she thought he was making an enormous mistake. John told her to keep her opinion to herself.

Second, they took on 221 C as well, and the basement apartment was first soundproofed, and the living room converted into a small recording studio for John to resume his experimentation with Midi technology. It turned out that John Watson enjoyed creating soundscapes from ambient, natural noises. And so some days he and Holmes would walk around the city, John with his recorder, just listening for interesting sounds to collect.

On one such trip, Holmes took John to an old favorite haunt. It was on the grounds of an abandoned estate, a fenced off tunnel burrowed through a large hillock called Hob’s Iron.

“I suspect the location was a meteorite impact site,” he told John as he shimmied past the barb wire barricades down into the tunnel, landing lightly on his feet. Sherlock reached up to help John down the steep drop. “The local ground is rich in magnetite, and there is brecciation of a large amount of the local granite bed.”

John turned his torch on the gloom. The tunnel was vast, long sealed off and pitch dark. Sherlock added his light to the survey.

John stomped his foot, then grinned. “Fabulous acoustics,” he said.

Sherlock smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”             John took out two items from his pack; a length of pipe, and a long piece of heavy bamboo. He looked back at Holmes, who lit his path for him with his torch, and clanged the disparate materials together.

The sound echoed weirdly through the lengthy, twisting tunnel. The moment played out as the sound bounced back on itself, ending in almost a howl.

John let out a sigh. He was breathing heavily. “That was an accomplishment for me, you know,” he said quietly. “You know why.”

Sherlock nodded. “You can tolerate that sound, now,” he said. “Good show, my friend. I’m proud of you. How is the dark treating you?”

John made a small shrug. “Tolerably well. But then, I knew it was coming. It might be another story if it came unexpectedly. There is ready egress, and light and food within reach. It might be different, were that not the case.”

“H’m.” Sherlock shuffled his feet for a few seconds. “I killed him, John,” he admitted.

John turned around to face his future partner. “I thought as much. Killing is no trick. I killed for you, within eighteen hours of meeting you.”

Sherlock Holmes nodded. “It seems we are in a mood for confession. I killed Moriarty, because he needed to die. I…I carry a token, of that deed. Would you care to see it?”

John raised the pipe and bamboo length and struck them together again. More weird echoes sounded around them. “I may as well. I was the reason for it.”

“True.” Sherlock then produced a small, rectangular brass box. He handed this to John without commentary. John stowed the pipe and bamboo back in his pack before taking the box.

Watson shook this, listening to the rattle within. He looked at Holmes, who aimed his torch at the box lid’s impressed design.

“Teeth…and fingernails?”

Sherlock smiled darkly. “And flanges, and a few vertebrae.”

John nodded. “You are a sociopath,” he said, passing the box back to its owner. John cleared his throat. “I know what that means, in the cold light of day, Holmes. Part of you will always be unpredictable, dangerous. But we have each shed blood, in the name of the other...”

Sherlock tisked through his teeth. “Are you certain you want to discuss this, before our wedding, Darling?”

“I don’t think there’s a better time,” John said.

“Nor do I, my pet.”

John swung on Holmes, catching the point of his jaw. “Don’t talk to me in that supercilious way!” he bellowed in the dark. “He used to do that to me, make me feel small, worthless, talk to me like I was his property…the difference is, I…I _am_ your property…” John sounded stricken.

Sherlock stepped into John’s space. “Yes, you are. But only because you wish to be, and I wish you to be.”

John shook his head. “He took me, so many times…” he said, his voice cracking.

“I know how he hurt you, John. I watched it for myself. Watched him rape you, injure you, steal from you, and from me, what is rightfully mine…” Sherlock reached out and touched John’s face. “Your pain is mine,” he told the Doctor possessively. “And anyone who causes you pain has stolen from me. Moriarty made me watch you suffer, forced me to be a witness to what by all rights is mine own to render, and no one else’s.   He stole from me as surely as any petty sneak thief, but what he stole was precious beyond measure, and I hate him for taking that, and for hurting you…”

John grabbed Sherlock’s lapel. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “I discovered something terrible, while he was holding me…” and he shut his eyes.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What? What did you learn?”

“That part of me, a small, angry, miserable part, enjoyed being treated that way,” John admitted bitterly. “Part of me loved him, for the hurt he caused, the degradation, even the terror. Especially the terror…”

“No, my friend,” Holmes assured Watson. “You were terrified, starved, tormented. But you did not love him. You were only trying to keep yourself alive, playing his poisonous game.” Sherlock put his arms around him. “But it was not his game to play with you,” Holmes told him. “I am your terror. If you find it is a need to be endulged, in the future, I can be that, for your benefit. And you can be the outlet for my own darkness.”

John aimed his torch up into Sherlock’s face. And it was at that moment that he realized exactly how massively fucked up the two of them were, and how absolutely well-suited to share a life together.

 

** EPILOGUE **

**One Year Later**

Marius slunk along the back of the divan, looking for a nice spot to nap.

Sherlock looked up at the Sphinx, lurking above him, its nude tail sawing the air. He thought the cat was about to leap down and settle on his chest, and since he was on his laptop, he did not need the interruption.

“Move along,” he said, “nothing to see here.”

The cat leapt down onto Sherlock, circling thrice before settling down, on his belly, splaying her pink toes in pleasure.

Sherlock harrumphed, adjusting around the cat and repositioning the laptop.

“She likes you, you know,” John said, from his chair. He flipped through the pages of the paper, squinting through the lenses of his prescription half-eyes.

Marius was a gift from a happy client. A very valuable gift, being a pedigree Sphinx, and pick of the litter, no less.

“It’s your cat, John,” Sherlock said in mild exasperation.

“Tell her, not me.”

Married life had settled into a pleasantly predictable rhythm. 221 B was a little warmer after some new wallpaper and floors, and John and Sherlock had found their way to a new simpatico, living as a couple.

They had each kept their own name, of course. And the distinctive rings Sherlock had purchased, as a deflection technique, the meteorite wedding set. John’s had been stolen while he was Moriarty’s captive, but Sherlock had recovered it the night he dealt with the villain; it had been in James’s own jewelry box when Sherlock had searched for the remote for the corset locks.

The two of them understood each other implicitly. Sherlock the sociopath, whose impulses were only mostly managed by casework; and John, pragmatic, mildly masochistic and wildly guilty over things that were not his fault. They filled in each other’s character gaps very neatly.

When Sherlock became manic, John simply hit him, hard, in the face. The blow was usually sufficient to knock him back on track. But every now and then, it was necessary to pummel Holmes severely; when he locked in on a fixed idea, or became obsessed with unproductive minutia.

As for John, his needs were slightly more complex. It had taken a bit of trial and error to come to a methodology, but at last they did. And once or twice a month, when John’s own internal turmoil was percolating to the surface, beyond his control, he and Sherlock retired to the soundproof refuge of 221 C, and Sherlock would shackle him to a chair and choke him until he passed out. Sometimes once, sometimes repeatedly. When they were both feeling indulgent, the couple would act out entire scenarios, often involving abducting one another, and holding each other hostage, bound, until the storm passed.

The two friends never actually made love to one another, so their marriage was never officially consummated. But that was their secret, and when people saw the clear passion between them, it was never questioned.

“We’ll have to finish out that last scenario, you know,” John said to Sherlock’s back as he stood, taking up his violin as he left Marius to her own devices on the divan.

Holmes tuned his instrument, plucking the strings with a nail. “Huh. You just want me to scare you senseless, again.”

“Not senseless. Just…enough,” John provided, with a small smile.

Sherlock attacked the violin with sudden violence, slicing the notes from the strings with sweeping strokes of the bow.

“Is that the new piece you’re working on?”

“Umm hmm,” Holmes confirmed. The music soared, and then switched in character from violent to elevating and sweet.

John paused to listen, and his smile widened. “That’s very good,” he said, pleased. “What’s it called?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the man he loved.  

“Our Flight,” he supplied, smiling back at John.

John Watson nodded. “Outstanding, my friend,” John said meaningfully.

 

**_ FIN _ **

**__ **


End file.
